


sugar lips

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3b, Deepthroating, First Time Blow Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Steter Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: Stiles never shuts up.It’s a talent of his, Peter’s noticed. The talking. Stiles has been at it without interruption for the past five minutes, rambling on about the dangers of undercooked chicken and how it’s all fine and well for Scott or Isaac to eat it, but he doesn’t want to die of food poisoning or salmonella or e. coli, thank you very much.“You’re complaining to the wrong audience,” Peter says.Stiles stops, and looks at Peter like he forgot he was there. “Uh, hello? Did you forget you’re a werewolf too?”“Yes, Stiles, I forgot something I’ve known my whole life. I meant that you should take your complaints to the restaurant, not to me.”“Can’t a guy vent around here anymore?”“There are better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Peter murmurs, flipping the page of his book.---In which Peter teaches Stiles how to give head, and then some.





	sugar lips

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by (nsfw) [this gif](https://78.media.tumblr.com/804cc81661eca5405512342e0cc6511a/tumblr_o2clqxVg7q1s3px5po1_500.gif) but took a bit of a different turn. 
> 
> disclaimer: i know nothing about calculus.
> 
> thank you to everyone at the steter network who cheered me on while i was writing this!

Stiles never shuts up. 

It’s a talent of his, Peter’s noticed. The talking. Stiles has been at it without interruption for the past five minutes, rambling on about the dangers of undercooked chicken and how it’s all fine and well for Scott or Isaac to eat it, but he doesn’t want to die of food poisoning or salmonella or e. coli, thank you very much. 

“You’re complaining to the wrong audience,” Peter says.

Stiles stops, and looks at Peter like he forgot he was there. “Uh, hello? Did you forget you’re a werewolf too?”

“Yes, Stiles, I forgot something I’ve known my whole life. I meant that you should take your complaints to the restaurant, not to me.” 

“Can’t a guy vent around here anymore?” 

“There are better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Peter murmurs, flipping the page of his book.

Stiles freezes, heartbeat going rabbit quick. It’s enough to make Peter pause and look up. Stiles has gone delightfully pink, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Peter doesn’t need to be a genius to put two and two together-- Stiles has no reason to be here. The loft is empty. Derek is off somewhere, Isaac along with him. No other teenagers have invaded, and Peter was enjoying the idyll before Stiles barged in here and made himself at home. Peter always put the constant, low grade arousal in Stiles’s scent to him being young, but-- well.

Not just young, but young and open to trying new things it seems.

“Yeah?” Stiles says. His voice has gone thick. “Like what?” 

Peter considers him. Stiles is fiddling with the hem of his shirt, humming with nervous energy. His eyes are two dark pools, and Peter can see the bob of his throat when he swallows. Fresh faced and inexperienced. He sets his book to the side, and leans back, spreading his legs wide. “Come here.” 

Stiles does, and Peter is vindicated for a vicious second before he focuses on Stiles standing in front of him. He curls one hand around Stiles’s hip, nudging him until he’s kneeling between his legs. Stiles has long, dense eyelashes that frame his doe eyes, and Peter can practically taste his nervousness. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Peter asks. 

“It can’t be that hard,” Stiles says, eyeing the front of Peter’s jeans. “I’ve watched porn.” 

Peter doesn’t bother to tell him porn isn’t exactly the same as first hand experience, or even an entirely realistic version of sex. Stiles should know that. If he doesn’t, he’s about to find out. Instead, Peter huffs a laugh. “We’ll see.” 

He doesn’t expect Stiles to make the first move, but Stiles does, glancing up at Peter and reaching for his zip. The sound of the teeth parting is loud in the loft. Stiles’s hands are sweaty from nerves when he pulls Peter’s cock out, weighing it in his hands. Judging. Peter’s unphased. He doesn’t have anything to be insecure about, but he knows it’s a lot for someone so fresh and inexperienced to handle. 

“I don’t think I can fit all of this in my mouth,” Stiles says. He’s breathless, reeking of arousal. 

“Did I tell you to?” Peter says. 

“Right,” Stiles says. “Right.” 

The first lick is tentative and barely there. Stiles scrunches his face up like he can’t decide whether he likes it or not, and went in again to help make up his mind. He was determined to try, Peter was willing to give him that much. Eager too. 

Stiles laps at his cock, getting it wet with little kitten licks, the pink dart of his tongue mesmerising. Peter doesn’t push him. He enjoys watching Stiles explore. By the time Stiles got just the tip inside his mouth, his eyes were completely blown. His mouth was hot and wet, Peter hitching his hips an inch or two further into the inviting heat. 

“Keep your lips over your teeth,” he instructs. “And breathe through your nose.” 

Stiles does his best, eyes fluttering shut. He groans low in his throat. Peter doesn’t move, letting Stiles do most of the work. It’s hard to resist the urge to simply push him down on his cock and fuck his face, but Peter knows the long term rewards are worth reaping. He handles Stiles carefully, palming the back of his head and stroking his fingers through his hair. 

“That’s it. Nice and slow. Just relax.” 

About halfway through, Stiles withdraws, panting. He fists Peter’s dick in his hand, spreading his spit over the length of him. 

“I definitely can’t fit everything in,” Stiles says, pink-faced. 

“Blowjobs aren’t all about deepthroating,” Peter tells him. “You have to take into account what someone likes. Think about where you’re most sensitive and apply that.” 

He could be more detailed, sure, but half the fun is getting Stiles to figure it out himself. 

Stiles braces one hand on Peter’s knee, and nods. When he dives back in, he takes the head of Peter’s dick into his mouth and tongues the slit. Peter twitches, and Stiles makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like _aha_. 

“Suck,” Peter says, and groans when Stiles suckles at him. It’s too sloppy, too much saliva and sometimes teeth, but Stiles is enthusiastic, trying to get more and more of him into his mouth like he needs it. He’s hard. Peter can see the bulge in his jeans, the wet spot on the front of them. He pushes the flat of his shoe against it, and Stiles whines, humping forward. Peter laughs, and Stiles flushes a deep red all the way down his neck and past his collar, but he doesn’t stop sucking Peter, bobbing his head up and down and pausing occasionally to run his tongue along the sensitive underside. He’s moaning. 

Something about it does it for Peter. Maybe it’s how needy Stiles is, or knowing that he’s the first man Stiles has ever had in his pretty little mouth, but he’s getting off on it. 

“I’m going to cum,” he warns Stiles, because it _is_ his first time, and contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a complete sadist. And he has manners. 

Stiles doesn’t back off. Peter suppresses a smile. Probably wants to know what someone else tastes like on his tongue. He obliges, coming with a stutter of his hips, shoving as deep inside Stiles as he can, Stiles choking him down. 

(Not that nice.) 

When he finishes, he pulls out. A thin string of spit or cum connects Stiles’s swollen lips and the tip of Peter’s cock. It breaks when Stiles flicks his tongue out. He swallowed. He looks absolutely debauched, colour high and hair tousled from Peter running his hands through it. Peter tucks himself back into his jeans.

“Peter,” Stiles bites out, pushing against Peter’s shoe. 

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Peter says. He rubs the sole of his shoe across Stiles’s jeans, pressing down hard. Stiles doesn’t need encouragement, grinding against it and clutching at Peter’s leg. He buries his face against the side of Peter’s knee when he comes with a keen. Peter massages him through it until Stiles squirmed away. 

After Stiles gets cleaned up, he emerges from the bathroom and leans against the threshold. 

“So like, on a scale of one to ten, how bad was it?” His voice is slightly hoarse.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You’re fishing for compliments. I came, didn’t I?”

“Why can’t you be less awful for one minute? I just sucked you off!” 

“Five out of ten,” Peter says. 

“That’s it?” Stiles says. 

“It was your first time,” Peter says. “What did you expect? And it’s a passing grade.”

“Barely!” 

“So get better.” 

“How?”

Peter pauses. “Practice.” 

“On you?” Stiles says, picking at a piece of lint on his jeans. 

“Do you want it to be me?” Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Who else am I supposed to ask?”

Peter doesn’t tell him that he could ask anyone, and few people would turn down the tempting, plush promise of Stiles’s mouth. He doesn’t mention their turbulent history or how their conversation is always one sore spot away from becoming a full blown argument. He doesn’t say any of that, because he can still smell the faint salt tang of cum on Stiles’s skin. When he crosses the room and kisses Stiles, Stiles is uncertain against him, clumsy with his lips and bumping his nose against Peter’s. It's unbearably sweet.

“All right,” Peter says.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s a working relationship. Peter teaches Stiles how to give head and kiss to make up for his lack of inexperience, and in return, he gets a pretty boy on his knees doing his best to make him cum. Win-win in his opinion. There's nothing else to it, which is just how Peter likes it.

After the third mediocre blowjob from Stiles, Peter changes tracks. He lays Stiles out on his bed one day and pulls him to the edge, on his knees before him. He proceeds to blow Stiles until Stiles is shaking and pleading and Peter is unrelenting, swallowing around the entire length of his dick until he cums down his throat. 

Stiles flops back on his bed, chest heaving. Peter circles his ankle with one hand. He laps at Stiles and whatever little he missed. When he’s done, he noses the crease of his thigh and breathes him in. Stiles smells like satisfaction and sex. 

“Mind. Blown,” Stiles says. They’re monosyllables, but they’re words. Peter pops up from the floor and sits on the bed beside Stiles. Stiles says, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“College,” Peter says. It’s half true. That’s where he refined his technique. 

Stiles says, _huh_ , and glances at Peter like he never much thought about Peter doing normal things like going to school and studying and partying. That’s fine. Peter gets that a lot these days. Normalcy is a far away thing, a thing for other people. Not for him or for Stiles even these days. 

Before Stiles can start up a game of twenty questions with him, Peter pulls the box he brought with him front and center, sliding it over to Stiles. Stiles looks at it like it might bite. It’s innocuous, as far as boxes go, smooth white cardstock and no markings whatsoever. 

“What’s in this?” Stiles asks. 

“Open it and see,” Peter says. 

“There better not be a human heart in here, I swear to god, Peter,” Stiles says, peeling at the tape. He lifts the lid and drops it to the side. 

Inside, lying on a thin layer of tissue paper in plastic packaging is a clear dildo. Stiles chokes on air and gapes at Peter. 

“I’m tired of you nicking me with your teeth,” Peter says. 

“You heal!”

“It still hurts. That,” he says, jabbing his finger at the dildo, “doesn’t have feelings.” 

Stiles mutters something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like _you don’t have feelings either_ , and Peter refrains from rolling his eyes. Stiles tears open the packaging, and touches the toy tentatively, lifting it up. It’s heavy, velvety silicone, with a suction cup at the base. 

“Make sure you clean it,” Peter says. “You can boil it, otherwise soap and water will do.” 

Stiles’s face does a weird thing. “I feel like I should say thanks, but…” 

“You can thank me by keeping your teeth away from my dick,” Peter says, dry as the Sahara. “I’ll give you a reassessment next week.” 

“That’s it?”

Peter cocks his head. “What else?” 

Stiles bites his lip, and shakes his head. “No. Nothing. I guess I’ll see you around.” 

Peter leaves through the window.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
If he thinks about it later that night-- thinks about Stiles’s spit slick lips closing around the dildo he bought for him, his cheeks hollowed around it, practicing so he can earn Peter’s approval-- and jerks himself off to it, that’s no one’s business but his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They don’t meet privately again until the aftermath of the Alpha pack and Darach fiasco, of which Peter is relieved to have escaped from intact. Derek and Cora are alive too, which is all that matters. He thinks about leaving. Derek is making noises about it, and for Cora Beacon Hills isn’t home anymore. It’s changing. Has been changing since the beginning of time, only now their era’s passed here. Peter doesn’t want to stick around and watch the town slowly turn into something he will no longer recognise. 

(So what does he want?)

He runs into Stiles at the gas station in the middle of the night. The too-bright fluorescents don’t do him any favours, Stiles’s pale skin washing out blue. 

“You’re up late,” Peter says from the neighbouring pump. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Stiles says. “What did you go to college for?” When Peter doesn’t answer, he presses on. “Are you any good at calculus?” 

“Are you asking me to help you with your homework?” 

“You’re filling up past midnight, I figure you don’t have anything better to do.” 

“I was going to get waffles,” Peter says. 

“I’ll go with you.” Stiles finishes filling his tank. “The place by the library, right?” 

I didn’t invite you, Peter doesn’t say. He nods, and Stiles runs his hand through his hair. Says, great, see you there, and gets into his car. Peter thinks about not going. He thinks about Stiles waiting for him. He hangs the nozzle up in the cradle, and drives off. 

They take over a corner table in the restaurant, Peter with his back to the wall, watching Stiles pull stacks of paper out of his backpack. A thick textbook thumps on the table. Stiles sticks a pen between his lips while he rifles through his notes, opening up his notebook. The other patrons are mostly older students cramming for exams, working their way through their third coffee refill. 

Peter orders, and Stiles waves vaguely at the waitress, asking for “one of whatever he’s having”. 

“That isn’t how it works,” he’s telling Stiles when the waffles arrive. “Differentiation is what you use to find the derivative of a function. You should have asked Lydia to lend you her notes. Yours are terrible.”

They are. They’re mostly chicken scratch, and jar to a stop when Stiles ends up distracted or doodling in the margins. 

Stiles throws his hands up. “What’s the point of calculus anyway? Why did I do this to myself?” 

“It’s a standardized requirement designed to make students cry,” Peter says. “But if you’re genuinely curious, calculus is used to calculate changes. Minute, infinitesimals ones.” 

“I used to think you were scary,” Stiles says between bites of his pumpkin spice waffles, “but you’re kind of a huge nerd, aren’t you?” 

Peter looks pointedly at Stiles’s Batman shirt. 

“Were you a mathlete?” Stiles says. 

“No, Stiles. I was captain of the basketball team.” 

“Okay, whatever, defend your jock cred. But what’s this used for?”

“I told you. To calculate change. In everyday context, you can use it to find solutions.” 

Stiles remains unconvinced, and Peter has to admit. Calculus hasn’t come in handy for him either past graduation. He has other ways of problem solving.

“You learn plenty of useless things in school. Why complain about this one?” 

“Because you’re letting me vent.” Stiles smiles, licking the cream off his fork. “Or are you gonna tell me to find something better to do with my mouth again?” 

Peter blinks, and barks with laughter. 

Stiles gives up two hours in, claiming that the numbers and letters were blurring together. But he doesn’t go. He orders a coffee instead, and jiggles his leg the entire time while he’s waiting until Peter rests his palm on his thigh. He’s kitty corner to Stiles, having moved when Stiles started badgering him about derivatives. 

“So this was nice,” Stiles says. 

“It wasn’t unbearable.” 

“Don’t lie, you wouldn’t have stayed if you didn’t want to.” 

Peter doesn’t have a retort to that. He checks his watch. The short hand points at three. Stiles is doing the same, but with his cellphone. 

“I should get home,” Stiles says. The graveyard shift will be ending soon at Beacon Hills Police Department. Stiles glances at Peter from under his eyelashes, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’ve been practicing. So-- I’ll see you soon?” 

The way he looks, hopeful and a little shy, makes Peter want to suggest soon be now. But it’s late, and his father will wonder.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, and is rewarded by Stiles ducking his head sweetly and shuffling out of the cafe.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Soon winds up being a few days later, Peter slipping through Stiles’s window after a perfunctory knock. Stiles is sprawled out on his bed. Dead to the world. Purple smudges underline his eyes. 

Peter plucks a book off the shelf. He’s reading when Stiles wakes up, shooting upright in bed. His heartbeat is going crazy. 

“Bad dream?” Peter says, looking up from the page. 

Stiles rubs his eyes. He squints at Peter like he can't decide if he's awake or not. 

“I don't remember,” he says. “Are you reading Harry Potter?” 

Peter shows him the cover in full. It's the third book and objectively the best, and he tells Stiles as much. Sweat overlays the warm milk of Stiles’ sleep scent. His hairline is damp, and he leans against his pillows like his spine is soft and malleable, liable to collapse. Peter checks what page he's on, and snaps the book shut. 

“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” he tells him. 

Stiles’ eyes are two pools of black. His face is devoid of any expression before the frown. “But we haven't done anything yet.” 

Something else rings Stiles’ scent. It's fragrant and ancient and smells a bit like burning wood. Peter's nostrils flare, and he stands. 

“You're tired,” he says.

“Since when did you care?” 

“You falling asleep while we're in the middle of things isn't ever going to be a compliment.”

Peter’s already halfway to the window. He pauses, glancing back at Stiles. Stiles lounges on the bed, indolent. Peter waves, and drops down to the lawn. When he looks over his shoulder, Stiles is silhouetted in the window, nothing but a blob of black blotting out the light behind him. Peter pulls his jacket tighter around him, and leaves.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Stiles finds Peter at the loft two weeks later, all jittery energy and restless pacing. He doesn't notice Peter nudging a stack of books under the couch, or him closing the lid on his laptop, or the deep whiff Peter takes of his scent. It's 60% caffeine and 40% Adderall, which can't be a healthy combination, but is signature to Stiles. Peter is better at the waiting game than Stiles will ever be, which is why he wins and Stiles breaks the silence first.

“So,” he says, licking at his lips, “haven't seen you around recently.” 

“I got caught up in a personal project,” Peter says. 

Stiles stops and takes in the current state of the coffee table. Aside from the quiet hum of Peter's Macbook and a memo pad scrawled full of notes, there's nothing remarkable to see. It's nothing like the mess and chaos Stiles generates on a research binge.

Stiles’ hand twitches; he drums his fingers on his thigh. Peter waits. Stiles looks tired. Peter wonders how much longer he has.

“I want to suck you off,” Stiles says, flushing. A spike of arousal accompanies his words, spicy and tempting. Peter breathes it in. He stands, toe-to-toe with Stiles, and takes his wrist. Under his thumb, Stiles’ heartbeat is rabbit quick. Peter wants to bite. 

Instead, he leads him to up the winding staircase to the guest room that might as well be his room. The energy humming around Stiles settles, honed by his absolute focus on Peter. 

“Have you been practicing?” Peter asks.

Stiles goes pinker. “Yeah.”

“But it isn't the same.” 

“I don't exactly get verbal feedback from a toy, so yeah, it isn't the same. Are you going to let me suck your dick or what?” 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “All right, let's see if you've improved.” 

Stiles makes grabby hands at Peter, and Peter nods. He watches Stiles slide to his knees and shuffle closer, hands balanced on Peter’s hips. Peter pops the top button for him.

“Try undoing the zipper with your teeth,” he suggests.

The zipper parts smoothly, Stiles nosing down the front of Peter’s briefs, breathing him in. His eyebrows are knit together in concentration, and he crows a little laugh when he gets to the bottom. Peter murmurs a brief encouragement. 

This time, Stiles isn’t hasty. He rubs his palms over Peter’s thighs, taking in the muscle taut under skin. When he drags Peter’s underwear down it’s with the anticipation and breathlessness of someone unwrapping a gift. Peter watches the blush creep over his cheeks. He isn’t hard yet, but he will be soon. 

“It’s different,” Stiles says. “I mean, you should know, right? When it’s just the toy you don’t have to worry about everything else. But I kinda like it. The everything else.” 

Peter makes a vague noise of agreement. “Is that why you’ve been so desperate?”

“I haven’t--”

“You have,” Peter says. “I have ears, Stiles.”

He’s heard Stiles make offhand comments about his sexual experience (or lack thereof) plenty of times in the typical, self-absorbed teenage fashion, thinking no one would ever be interested in him when really, everything is just beginning for him. Peter likes it. Likes the idea of being Stiles’ first more than he should. Likes knowing that one day someone will ask Stiles where he learned how to do that with his mouth, and Stiles will think of Peter. 

“But that’s okay. Desperation looks good on you,” he says. He twines his fingers through Stiles’s hair, and yanks him in. Stiles whines low in the back of his throat, pitching forward against Peter. 

“God,” Stiles says, “you have such a dick.”

There’s a pause. 

Stiles scrambles to correct himself. “I mean, you’re such a dick, I’m not complimenting your dick, not that it isn’t a great dick-- I’ll just, I’ll just get on with it.” 

Peter raises his eyebrows, but says nothing further. He’ll spare Stiles this time. Stiles curls a hand around Peter, his palm warm as he weighs Peter’s cock on it. He leans in and breathes, hot breath hitting the sensitive skin there. Peter feels his cock twitch in interest. Once, twice, and again when Stiles licks a broad stripe over it before taking as much as he can into his mouth. He withdraws after a few seconds to suck at the underside of Peter’s dick, tongue running over the veins. Then he slides down on Peter’s cock again with renewed determination.

“That’s it. Wrap those pretty lips around me and get me hard,” Peter says. He knows Stiles enjoys compliments mixed with commands. 

Right on cue, Stiles groans, and bobs his head in earnest, pumping what he can’t fit with his hand, spit slicking the way. It isn’t long before Peter is hard, his dick flushed and jutting out before him. 

“Good boy,” Peter says. 

Stiles grins up at him around the length of Peter’s cock disappearing into his mouth. His eyes are bright as he pops the head in and out, closing his lips tight around the very tip and sucking hard. Peter cups his face, stroking over the fine line of Stiles’ cheekbone with his thumb. The rest of his fingers play over the soft underside of his jaw, the tender skin there. He doesn’t move and lets Stiles do the bulk of the work. The teeth don’t make an appearance, leaving the glide of Stiles’ mouth slick and perfect. 

“How much can you take in?” Peter asks, and remembers Stiles can’t answer. “Try. As deep as you can go, sweetheart.” 

Hot hot heat surrounds him on and on, Peter breathing out in a long, shaky exhale. When he opens his eyes and looks down, Stiles has his eyes closed in rapture like he could kneel in front of Peter all day doing nothing but sucking his cock. He has over half of it in his mouth, slurping sloppily at it before pulling back. 

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Peter says, pushing his cock against the inside of Stiles’s cheek and stroking over the bump of it from the outside. Stiles makes a punched out noise. Peter gently feeds Stiles the rest of his cock again, right up to where Stiles stopped. “Let’s work on that pesky gag reflex. Remember to relax.”

Peter rests his hand on the back of Stiles’ head, nudging him forward in increments. “Take a deep breath.” 

Stiles does, and chokes a little when he hits his limits. Peter backs off seconds later. Stiles is glassy eyed and his mouth is swollen. “Again,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

And Peter isn’t about to say no. He does it again. Gives Stiles as much as he can take and then some, because he knows from experience practice is what makes it easier. Tells Stiles how well he’s doing, how gorgeous he looks with his mouth stuffed full of cock, revels in the cling of his mouth and Stiles swallowing desperately around him. His words stutter and long groans punctuate them. 

“How many times did you practice this with the toy I gave you?” he pants. His nails scratch over Stiles’ scalp in accompaniment to the filthy purr of his next words. “Were you thinking of me when you were trying to deepthroat that plastic cock? Wanting to get better so I’d praise you? Tell you what a good boy you are for me.” 

Stiles can’t say much back, can’t do anything but moan around Peter’s dick, tears clinging to the dense sweep of his eyelashes. The colour is high on his face, his hands clinging to Peter for balance. He reeks of arousal even as he gags on Peter’s cock. He’s lovely.

“So hungry for it,” Peter says, and then he’s coming deep down Stiles’ throat. Stiles’ eyes are wide and shocked, and he looks utterly debauched. The sharp scent of cum fills the air. Stiles must have cum in his pants. Peter’s hips jerk. He doesn’t pull out immediately after though he backs off a bit so Stiles isn’t struggling, leaving only the head of his cock in Stiles’ mouth and thrusting in and out. Drawing out the last aftershocks. Stiles catches on quick, sucking gently until Peter slips out for good. He rests his head against Peter’s thigh, a lazy smile on his red mouth, the pale line of his throat bared for Peter: an immaculate marble column to be admired. 

A work of art.

That was the first of the last of the lessons.

One day, Stiles comes to him hollowed out and haunted. He’s been waning like the moon. Peter noticed, because he notices everything. 

They’re kissing when the scent returns. The taste of his own cum mixes with something that’s inherently Stiles, Peter lapping the inside of Stiles’s mouth clean. Stiles licks back tentatively, but bolder than he was weeks ago. It’s when Peter noses along his cheek and breathes in with his face pressed to the side of Stiles’ neck that he smells it: sandalwood and incense, the heart-pounding roiling of something old and dangerous. 

Peter recoils. 

“Peter?” says the thing wearing Stiles’ face. 

Peter blinks and it’s just Stiles again, hair tousled in the aftermath like it usually is because Peter enjoys running his hands through it and tugging. “You look terrible lately.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles says.

“I’m serious,” Peter says. “The only thing about you that’s improved are your blowjobs.” 

“Wow, backhanded compliment much?” Stiles is trying, but his heart isn’t into it. Peter can tell. He picks up his jeans and pulls them on. Stiles scrambles to do the same, doing them up when he asks, “So it’s been a while. One to ten?”

“Nine,” Peter says. 

“What-- seriously?” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles. I’ve taught you everything you can learn. You pass.” 

“That’s it,” Stiles says, and it isn’t a question. 

“That’s it.” 

“Well,” Stiles says, “well-- what now?” 

“We go our separate ways. Some boy catches your eye and you dazzle them with your amazing skills. Wasn’t that the goal?” The words are bitter on his tongue. 

Stiles droops. He rubs at his face, and nods. “But maybe we can meet up again anyway. Calculus is the worst mistake of my life, and you really helped last time.” 

Peter says nothing. He hasn’t been to the diner with the pumpkin spice waffles since the night Stiles invited himself along. He doesn’t think he’ll go back again. It’s better this way. Safer.

Stiles hunches in on himself. “Forget it.”

“Stiles,” Peter says. The naked hope in Stiles’ eyes is almost unbearable. Peter wants to warn him that something’s crept in under his defenses, taken advantage of the cracked open door and slipped in. Made itself at home. But it doesn’t know he knows yet. “Take care of yourself.” 

Stiles shakes his head and laughs, the sound hollow. “I don’t know why I ever thought you cared.”

When Stiles storms out, Peter tells himself this is for the best. The thing that has Stiles is old and strong, and Peter?

Peter is no match for it.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr!](https://corrosivity.tumblr.com/)


End file.
